Maya Angelou has died. The award winning author, poet and civil rights activist was found dead in her North Carolina home on early Wednesday morning, she was 86 years old. Despite what Angelou’s agent Helen Brann described as ailing “heart problems,” the tenacious activist was “going strong, finishing a new book.”
Brann also explained that she spoke to Angelou yesterday, and “She was fine, as she always was. Her spirit was indomitable." However after 86 long and inspiring years, Angelou’s life has come to an end, but her legacy will forever life on. Angelou, who started her life as devastated 7-year-old rape victim, went on to be one of the world’s most renowned poet and author, teaching the whole world about the power of words, she was even appointed as the American Poet Laureate.
Due to her inspirational works and ever enduring spirit, Maya Angelou will be remembered for generations to come and her work will be forever immortalized. While best known for autobiographies, including her 1969 breakthrough “I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings,” she is an established a renowned poet. Due to this, Latin Times has collected 10 of Maya Angelou’s most famous poems to celebrate her life and lasting legacy.
“Awaking In New York”
Curtains forcing their will against the wind, children sleep, exchanging dreams with seraphim. The city drags itself awake on subway straps; and I, an alarm, awake as a rumor of war, lie stretching into dawn, unasked and unheeded.
“I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings”
The free bird leaps on the back of the wind and floats downstream till the current ends and dips his wings in the orange sun rays and dares to claim the sky. But a bird that stalks down his narrow cage can seldom see through his bars of rage his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing. The caged bird sings with fearful trill of the things unknown but longed for still and his tune is heard on the distant hill for the caged bird sings of freedom The free bird thinks of another breeze and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn and he names the sky his own. But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing The caged bird sings with a fearful trill of things unknown but longed for still and his tune is heard on the distant hill for the caged bird sings of freedom.
“Momma Welfare Roll”
Her arms semaphore fat triangles, Pudgy hands bunched on layered hips Where bones idle under years of fatback And lima beans. Her jowls shiver in accusation Of crimes clichéd by Repetition. Her children, strangers To childhood's toys, play Best the games of darkened doorways, Rooftop tag, and know the slick feel of Other people's property. Too fat to whore, Too mad to work, Searches her dreams for the Lucky sign and walks bare-handed Into a den of bureaucrats for Her portion. 'They don't give me welfare. I take it.'
“Passing Time”
Your skin like dawn Mine like musk One paints the beginning of a certain end. The other, the end of a sure beginning.
“Kin”
FOR BAILEY
We were entwined in red rings Of blood and loneliness before The first snows fell Before muddy rivers seeded clouds Above a virgin forest, and Men ran naked, blue and black Skinned into the warm embraces Of Sheba, Eve and Lilith. I was your sister. You left me to force strangers Into brother molds, exacting Taxations they never Owed or could ever pay. You fought to die, thinking In destruction lies the seed Of birth. You may be right. I will remember silent walks in Southern woods and long talks In low voices Shielding meaning from the big ears Of overcurious adults. You may be right. Your slow return from Regions of terror and bloody Screams, races my heart. I hear again the laughter Of children and see fireflies Bursting tiny explosions in An Arkansas twilight.
“A Conceit”
Give me your hand Make room for me to lead and follow you beyond this rage of poetry. Let others have the privacy of touching words and love of loss of love. For me Give me your hand.
“Alone”
Lying, thinking Last night How to find my soul a home Where water is not thirsty And bread loaf is not stone I came up with one thing And I don't believe I'm wrong That nobody, But nobody Can make it out here alone. Alone, all alone Nobody, but nobody Can make it out here alone. There are some millionaires With money they can't use Their wives run round like banshees Their children sing the blues They've got expensive doctors To cure their hearts of stone. But nobody No, nobody Can make it out here alone. Alone, all alone Nobody, but nobody Can make it out here alone. Now if you listen closely I'll tell you what I know Storm clouds are gathering The wind is gonna blow The race of man is suffering And I can hear the moan, 'Cause nobody, But nobody Can make it out here alone. Alone, all alone Nobody, but nobody Can make it out here alone.
“California Prodigal”
FOR DAVID P—B
The eye follows, the land Slips upward, creases down, forms The gentle buttocks of a young Giant. In the nestle, Old adobe bricks, washed of Whiteness, paled to umber, Await another century. Star Jasmine and old vines Lay claim upon the ghosted land, Then quiet pools whisper Private childhood secrets. Flush on inner cottage walls Antiquitous faces, Used to the gelid breath Of old manors, glare disdainfully Over breached time. Around and through these Cold phantasmatalities, He walks, insisting To the languid air, Activity, music, A generosity of graces. His lupin fields spurn old Deceit and agile poppies dance In golden riot. Each day is Fulminant, exploding brightly Under the gaze of his exquisite Sires, frozen in the famed paint Of dead masters. Audacious Sunlight casts defiance At their feet.
“Insomniac”
There are some nights when sleep plays coy, aloof and disdainful. And all the wiles that I employ to win its service to my side are useless as wounded pride, and much more painful.
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